The Difference Between What's Feasible
by Master Spy advenger
Summary: Perfection comes at a price. A story of drug addiction. AU
1. Chapter one

She shouldn't have been where she was. She shouldn't have been doing what she was doing. She shouldn't be feeling what she was feeling.

Realistically, her problem began between the summer of second and third year. Her parents had claimed she was always acting edgy; nervous... just... not herself. Hermione didn't deny that she probably had - after all, wasn't it to be expected? After everything that had happened in the previous year, coupled with the fact that she would soon be starting a course-load that would make any of her fellow students hysterically sob, who wouldn't be a little anxious?

To her parents, it was enough for her to be taken to a doctor once they were back in Britain. She was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, and given a prescription for Xanax. She was allowed to take one every day, but for the rest of the summer, she barely touched the pill bottle. When it came time to go back to school, she left it behind, after deciding that she wouldn't have time to give into the near-crippling drowsiness the drug caused her.

"Hey, girl."

Hermione was at her drug dealer, Andrew's, house; his voice brought her back to reality."You ever done Smack?"

Excitement grew in Hermione's stomach - she had spent enough time in this house to know the nickname for Heroin; surely, this question would be followed by an offer. "No... what does it feel like?"

The day she came home after third year, she dug into the back of the medicine cabinet, looking for the bottle. It felt amazing to finally, after so many months, be _so _calm... for the first time, she felt as though nothing mattered - that, if she were to make a mistake, nothing bad would happen. She could've counted on one hand the amount of times she had taken it the summer before - this time, however, it felt _different_... in a good way. She started to take the pill daily; sometimes twice daily, and carried the bottle in her purse if she left the house. When it came time to go back to school, she made sure her mum knew to send a re-fill every month; despite the fact that she assured Hermione that she wouldn't forget, she still worried that, at the end of the month, the package would be late. Even worse, that it wouldn't come at all.

Andrew laughed, "like nothing you've ever felt before. Shit'll fuck you up like you wouldn't believe."

"In a good way, or a bad way?"

There was no possible way for Hermione to get more than her prescribed thirty pills a month while she was at school. She would spend hours agonizing over whether it would be worth it to double up on one day, if it meant she would have to go a day without somewhere along the line. It was strange... _craving _it like nothing she had craved before. It was like an entirely new kind of hunger - one that refused to be ignored. When she felt it, it was the only thing she was able to think about.

It wasn't long before she realized that snorting the drug would make it last longer, and therefore, eliminate the cravings. Minimizing the amount of time she would spend without pills, at the end of the month, when she would inevitably run out, and be left to wait for her new prescription to come.

"Good - always good." Andrew answered, sound very sure of himself.

By springtime, she had built up such a tolerance, that even snorting it, she would run out within three weeks. She had never thought seven days could be such a long time - she would make it three or four days without the pills, nervously tapping her fingers, as though she were impatiently waiting for something. After that, would spend every moment that she was not in class in bed, trembling with fever, threatening to hex anyone who tried to turn the lights on.

"Would you like to try some?" He asked.

Hermione pretended to think about it, as though she had never given it any thought before. "I can't pay you for it."

Again, Andrew laughed. "Just because I like you, I'll give you your first hit for free."

The time between May and June was the worst. Hermione had been so sick the entire week, she was constantly on the verge of tears, and finding it harder and harder to hide her problem. Not only had her teachers noticed a significant drop in her work quality at the end of the month, but Harry and Ron persistently nagged her to go to the hospital wing when she told them how sick she was. How could she tell them that the only thing that would make her feel better was a drug? How could they react to her telling them that the only thing that truly mattered to her was shoving a powder up her nose? She wanted to feel horrible - horrible for making Harry think about this, when he had so much to be worrying about as it was. However, she was too caught up in her own personal hell, that any compassion for other had been banished from her mind.

The morning the package came, Hermione didn't go to class. She spent the entire day in the girl's dormitory, higher than she thought was possible, so out of her mind that she barely noticed what was going on around her. By now, she was sure her roommates were beginning to think _something _was going on; if they weren't, then she had lost all faith in her classmates being able to function in adult society some day.

She spent the next two days the same way, sobering up just enough to be able to take notes in class. Sitting in class that day, she had heard the whispers that went on behind her back; she didn't care in the slightest, so long as no one tried to stop her from doing what she wanted.

"I suppose I can't argue that... What spurred this generosity?"

"Oh, child, you are so innocent, it's funny." Andrew said, chuckling. "Don't you know Smack goes with Xanax like a match made in Heaven?"

Hermione shrugged, "I guess I do now."

When summer came along, she swore she would never spend another year like that. Finding Andrew, who had no problem with supplying her with extra pills, had been the easy part - finding the way to pay him, however, was a different matter. Somehow, she had been able to manage fairly well. She wasn't sure how she would continue if she added Heroin to her bill.

Andrew began rooting through a brown paper bag, pulling out the types of things that any druggie would commit murder to get their hands on. He made a small pile of what they would need: needles, a spoon, a lighter, and, of course, the Heroin itself. He handled the contents of the bag as though he had done the same thing a thousand times - which, in all honesty, he probably had.

With the ease that only the skilled could muster, Andrew went to his extraordinarily dirty, run down, and tiny kitchen, which was attached to the disaster zone of a living room they had been in, and filled the spoon with water. With the bottom of the lighter, he crushed a rock, and poured the powdered Heroin in. He flicked the lighter on, and held it the underside of the spoon, bringing it to a steaming boil.

Hermione was fascinated by the process - she had a bit of a reputation as a curious being, earned by intently watching the way certain people prepared their drugs, should they decide to use them at Andrew's house. Something about the way people would feverishly crush cocaine, mix a shot of meth, or swallow back an Oxycontin, was like the pages of a book to her; it made her wonder if she looked the same way as she chopped up a Xanax, spread the powder out, and sucked it down. Most likely she did. The thought no longer bothered her - most things had stopped bothering her long ago.

Andrew put a piece of cotton into the spoon, and drew the resulting liquid into two needles. He brought both over to her, and knelt down on the floor next to her, like a doctor seeing a patient, in a strange, twisted kind of way. Selecting the needle that had less in it, he carefully put his fingers on her forearm, squeezing on it, making her veins pop.

"This is going to hurt a little," He muttered as he stuck the prick into the biggest vein, which ran from her elbow to her wrist.

For a moment, Hermione regretted what she had done. She knew, at that very moment, that she had just lost her very last scrap of innocence; she desperately wanted it back. She wanted to be a child again - a normal childhood. She wanted to have normal friends, go to a normal school, and, at the end of the day, go to a normal home. She didn't _want _to be a witch any more - she didn't want to be around for a war... a war she and her friends most likely wouldn't live through.

"Oh - ouch," She groaned - when Andrew said it would hurt a _little, _he had been under-exaggerating. It felt like liquid fire was going into her skin, burning everything it came into contact with.

Seconds later, when it hit her, any regret she had felt went out the window.

She gasped, feeling as though her head had been painlessly smashed into something, her mind detached from her body, and her mind detached from reality.

"Good stuff, huh?" Andrew asked, setting about getting his own shot in his arm. Hermione did not answer - she had heard him speak, but had not understood a word of it. Against her will, her eyes closed, and she could feel herself dropping back, catching herself, and then drooping straight back down. She tried to say something - what it was, however, she was not entirely sure - and was quite certain that it made no sense coming out.

Unable to stay sitting up, she leaned back into the couch, not thinking, not feeling, barely being.

Barely being... but never feeling so alive. So... so _right _was this feeling, she could not possibly see why it was illegal. Why didn't everyone want to feel this way? What was wrong with it?

Time lost it's meaning - all she knew was that a considerable amount of it had passed before Andrew began shaking her, saying something about her having to get up.

"Fuck, kid..." he was saying, "I had no goddamn clue how much to give you... shit."

The thought that she would overdose, right here, her first time doing any sort of hard drug, seemed highly amusing. Hermione wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but the idea of it took too much energy, and was quickly dismissed.

"Hermione!" He shouted, losing patience "get your ass _up!_"

Trying her best to make herself understandable, Hermione mumbled, "make me." She would stay sitting here for the rest of her life if she could. No - she didn't want to move; damned if anyone wanted her to.

"You've got to focus on something... that helps..." Andrew was saying, taking Hermione by the shoulders and forcing her into a more upright position. She immediately sank back.

Giving up on getting her attention, Andrew went to his stereo system, turned it on, and cranked the volume up. The band that was playing used as much bass guitar and screaming as possible - ideal for the purpose he had turned it on for. If there was noise, then Hermione would be less likely to sink into her high so deeply that no amount of shaking would wake her up. Andrew reminded himself never to dose someone again based on what he _thought _they should be doing - particularly if that person was a fifteen year old girl, who couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds.

High himself, Andrew leaned against the living room wall, half awake, putting his mind on the task of trying to understand the lyrics to the song, hoping he had not made a grave mistake.

**As always, thank you for reading. I know everyone says it means a lot, but it really does - I put a lot of work into this chapter, and I hope you all liked it!**

**I've been thinking of writing a story like this for a long time - it seems like there are very few stories about drug addiction in the Harry Potter fandom, and even fewer Ron/Hermione drug addiction stories. I've always seen Hermione as a person under a lot of pressure... I know, from my brother's experience, that smart people under pressure can have disastrous results. Both my brothers are clean today, after a ten year struggle with addiction to meth and Heroin. Andrew, the drug dealer in this story, is named after one of them. **

**Again, thank you for reading. **


	2. Chapter two

An hour and a half later, Hermione could feel the Heroin begin to wear off. Forcing herself to do so, she sat up, sniffled, and trudged over to the stereo, turning the music down to the minimum level. She wondered how she had possibly been able to ignore it - before she turned it down, it had been loud enough to send vibrations through the furniture.

Andrew was no where to be seen; most likely, he had been called by a client, and had gone to meet them. Hermione was amazed he had left her in his house alone... unless, of course, he had expected her to remain in a half-passed out state while he was gone.

Sighing, Hermione sat on the floor, playing with her hair. Suddenly, it dawned on her that she had no idea what time it was - it was still light out, but the days were so long in the summer, that was of little relevance in terms of the time. She jumped up, nearly fell over, and stumbled to Andrew's phone, toppling over once she made it to the table it was sitting on. Reaching up, she pulled on the receiver cord, dragging it off of the table and onto the floor in front of her.

She had to slam the receiver down a couple times, having pressed the wrong number; once, she forgot who she was trying to call, and blankly stared at the number pad, before she remembered that her parents were probably frantic by now, wondering where she was.

The phone rang only two or three times before there was an answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, mum, it's Hermione." She said, her words slurred, feeling strange coming out of her mouth. "Er... I don't think I'm going to be home tonight... I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to be worrying..."

Hermione's mother gave a sigh, "Hermione, _what _do you think you're doing? Do you think I have no idea what's going on?"

"Nothing's going on - what do you _think _is going on?"Hermione asked, twisting the telephone cord around her finger.

There was a silence, as if her mother didn't want to answer the question. "I want to know where you are - I'm coming to get you."

"No, mum, you aren't," Hermione replied. She wasn't about to let her mum see the sort of places she had been spending the majority of her time - she would never be allowed out of the house again.

"_Yes. I. am!_"

Hermione hung up the phone and pushed it away from her, wanting to cry. Her mother would never let her forget this, nor did Hermione want to face the fact that it had happened - she wasn't even sure exactly what had happened.

Andrew's paper bag was laying on the coffee table; Hermione grabbed it, and began to dig through it. Bags full of white rocks, unlabeled pill bottles, needles... She selected the bag that she recognized as Heroin, and hoped that she had seen it being cooked enough times to do it herself.

Her hands trembled as she wondered how much of the drug to put in the water - would the Heroin still in her system effect it? Did she put enough water in? She tipped a tiny amount in, hoping it would be enough, and brought it to a boil.

As she selected the vein to shove the needle in, Hermione did not care that this was, technically, stealing. She didn't care that, for all she knew, she had made the shot strong enough to have her dead in ten seconds. All that mattered to her was that she was feeling horrible, and the liquid inside this needle would make her feel better.

From watching others shoot up, she knew that the vein was just under her skin, and she wouldn't have to push hard to gain access. It hurt, just as much as it had the first time, but Hermione did not stop pushing the plunger down; she counted to four, and, with the needle still sticking out of her arm, she felt the drug hit her brain.

Laughing in relief, she sank to the ground, and lost all sense of being alive.

* * *

When Hermione was able to make sense of reality again, Andrew was there - along with four of his friends.

"You're a fast learner, you know that?" Andrew asked, seeing her with her eyes open. "I'm surprised you didn't kill yourself."

"That's what I've been told," Hermione yawned, aching from spending so much time on the floor. She stood, feeling wobbly, and sat down on the couch next to Andrew, wishing that she had some different clothes to change into.

One of Andrew's friends smirked, taking a drag from his cigarette. He offered the pack to Hermione, and, figuring she had done far deadlier things today, accepted one, and let him light it for her.

Instantly, she began to cough uncontrollably, causing half the people in the room to break out laughing. "You'll learn - give it time." The man who had offered her the cigarette said, taking it from her hand. Letting his own cigarette smolder, he took several puffs from Hermione's before stubbing it out, returning to his original one.

"What time is it?" Hermione asked - she thought about asking what day it was, even - for all she knew, she had been in the grips of Heroin for an entire day.

Andrew checked his watch, "Just after nine. Why?"

Hermione sighed, wondering where to start. "I called my mum, told her that I was going to spend the night away... she wanted to come get me, and I just hung up on her. She's going to be _so _pissed at me."

"Er... no offense... but if you're going to be doing things like Heroin, you'll have to get used to making your mummy and daddy upset."

Hermione's face grew red - of course she should have thought about that before she said anything. Andrew, she knew for a fact, hadn't seen either of his parents since they kicked him out of their house, more than three years ago. Why should he care about her mother being a little mad at her?

"What am I going to do?" Hermione moaned, rubbing her eyes. "I've really fucked up this time."

Another of Andrew's friends - one she knew fairly well, a man named Brian - said, "I think you've got a very hard decision to make. Either you stop everything, right here and now, and go home, or you continue on your way, and stop worrying about what your parents think or do."

Hermione considered this. "I have to go home at some point. It's not like I can avoid them forever. I haven't even thought about school or anything yet..."

She thought about the horrible year she had just gone through. How would it feel to be withdrawing off of several drugs, all at once? How would she even be able to get an illegal drug into Hogwarts?

"What's your school like?"

Hermione thought about her words carefully. "It's boarding school; really far away." She simply said, hoping they wouldn't ask her more about it.

"In other words, you go there, and you are completely screwed?"

"Basically, yeah." Hermione answered. There was no way she would be able to make thirty pills last for more than two weeks - nor was there any way for her and Andrew to make transactions at Hogwarts. The idea of not going back crossed her mind... skipping her O.W.L. year; just as Voldemort began to come back in to power... For drugs?

What use would she be, really? She wouldn't be able to do school work if she was sick half the time. She would never be able to help Harry and Ron if she couldn't even help her self...

Silence fell; Hermione realized how smokey the air was, and how heavily the smell of alcohol filled the room. Trash of every sort littered the ground; it looked as though the room had not been cleaned in weeks. This was what she had always thought a drug house would look like - she never thought that she would end up in one, contemplating her future.

"I don't go back for a little while yet. I'll figure something out." Hermione said, wishing she didn't have to think about this when all she wanted to do was sleep.

The conversation shifted, and Hermione was able to nod in and out. It was not particularly hot out, and she was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, but Hermione still felt undeniably warm. It was a good feeling - one she never wanted to stop. Would she give up everything for it?

Right now, feeling it, she would say that she just might have.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione said good-bye to Andrew, gathered up the things she had brought over, and began the walk to the nearest bus-stop. She was dreading having to face her parents, but, as she had said the night before, it wasn't like she could stay away from them for the rest of her life; disappearing for some-odd days while she hid out at Andrew's house would only make them even more angry with her.

The bus ride was only going to be fifteen or so minutes long; Hermione sat in the back, sank down, and hoped that nobody noticed her. She had never known the Heroin had a hangover effect; she couldn't wait to get back to Andrew's.

A young mother sat in front of Hermione, and she focused on the sound of her trying to sooth her child. She had never felt this jumpy in her life - if someone were to suddenly pop out from behind her, she would sprang a foot in the air, and then, would have turned around and punched the poor soul.

_Just... relax... _She told herself, closing her eyes and rubbing her left temple. She wondered how quickly she could get out of her parent's house, and how badly they would react to her leaving again so soon. In all honestly, she wasn't sure she cared how loud they shouted, so long as they did nothing to physically prevent her from leaving. So long as they didn't, she would be in and out in minutes.

And, if they did try to stop her... she would fight her way out of the house.

Two shots of Heroin... two shots, and it had done this to her. One year of relying on Xanax, and one day of relying on Heroin, and she was already thinking of how she would push her father out of her way.

That was what she was thinking of as the bus pulled up to her stop. She was the only one to get off, and had a quarter of a mile walk; the buses came every fifteen minutes, so she wouldn't be back in time for the next one, but there was a chance she could make the one after that.

Walking was incredibly difficult - again, she was stumbling around, and the sidewalk seemed to be moving. Nausea had set in during the bus ride; she felt like, at any moment, she would duck into the bushes and puke.

Focusing on taking one step after another, Hermione somehow remembered the way to her house; it had occurred to her halfway there that she could be going the complete wrong way, and she wouldn't know it. The front door was unlocked, and she staggered into the entry hallway, half collapsing in the process, and clinging to the doorknob for support.

"Hermione?" She heard her mother call; moments after, she came down the staircase. "_What _did you do?"

Hermione shut the door behind her, and attempted to climb the stairs. "I didn't do anything - have a little faith in me for _once _in my life!"

"Do you really expect me to believe you're okay? You can barely walk!"

"Damn, mum, how many times do I have to tell you? I'm perfectly fine!" Hermione's mother slammed her arm in front of her, blocking her from getting up the stairs.

Rage like she had never felt before filled Hermione. How dare she try to keep her from doing what she wanted? Without thinking, she grabbed her mother's arm, tightly, and threw her arm out of the way.

As far as Hermione knew, she had never disappointed her parents before. She had always had good grades, been well-mannered, and respectful; she had certainly never been violent. In that one moment, however, Hermione saw a look cross over her mother's face - a look that said that she had no idea the person standing in front of her was her daughter.

"I want to know if you've been doing drugs." She demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

More than anything, Hermione could not believe this was happening. She was not having this argument with her mum - she wasn't trying to get away so she could go get high.

"Of course I haven't," she lied.

Roughly, Hermione's mother seized her arm, carefully examining it. "What's that, then?"

She was pointing to one of the needle holes - the one she had given herself, which had a completely different look to it than the one Andrew had injected her with.

Shaking her head, Hermione pulled her arm back, and said, "just let me go."

"_Hermione, _I am _not _going to have you sticking needles in your arms in this house!" Her mother warned, her voice edging more and more into a yell. "If you want to throw your life away, find some place else to do it!"

Smirking, Hermione chuckled, "perfect."

Leaving her mother stunned, Hermione was finally able to race up the stairs, despite her wobbly state. Before she could be chased, Hermione locked herself in her room, and, for the first time in what seemed like forever, breathed.

She gave herself only a moment before opening her closet door. Her schoolbag was there, and she turned it upside down, emptying it of books, and carried it over to her dresser. Odds were, she wasn't picking things that matched, or even clothes that were appropriate for the weather, but at the moment, she did not care - she took the first things she could fit in her bag, and decided that whatever happened, happened. She changed out of the outfit she had been wearing for the last two days, and put on a tank top and jeans, knowing she now had at least one set of clothes that fit her.

It didn't cross her mind that she had just been kicked out of the place she had grown up. She didn't think about how long it might be before she saw the familiar rooms again. She just wanted to leave - leave, and move on to other things.

Unlocking her door, Hermione was surprised to see that her mother hadn't followed her. It made her nervous, thinking what she could be doing... hoping she still had a few minutes before her mother tried to confront her again, she rushed into the bathroom, and quickly took everything she would need. She knew she was forgetting things, but also knew she didn't have time to think things through - she would just have to make it work with what she remembered to take.

Finally, she was ready to go - just short of running, she went back downstairs, and slipped out the front door.

* * *

"My mom kicked me out." Was the first thing Hermione said when she opened the door to Andrew's. Knocking was beyond her train of thought; she was amazed by Andrew's stupidity at keeping his home unlocked in a neighborhood like this. "She saw the needle marks, and told me to leave."

"Fuck, kid, I'm sorry," Andrew answered, "I've been there - it's not a good place to be, is it?"

Hermione shrugged, "no, not really. You don't mind if I stay here for a little bit, do you?"

"No," Andrew said; Hermione put her bag down by the door, and sat down in the living room, giving an exasperated sigh.

"I have no clue what I'm going to do." She said, "I don't have any other friends here. Now, I don't even have a way to _get _to school, no place to live, and no job. I am so, completely, screwed."

It hit her that what she really wanted to do was cry - this was a situation she had never pictured herself being in, and yet, here she was. She had no Time-Turner to turn back the clock - she was stuck in this moment, and nothing she did could change that.

"Do you plan to keep using?" Andrew asked, sitting next to her.

"Probably - I was _always_ withdrawing off Xanax last year; I'm _never _doing that again. I've already managed to get myself kicked out over this shit, so, I guess I might as well."

They were quite for a moment; Hermione felt as though spiders were crawling all over her; inside of her, even. She would brush at her skin, only to have the feeling instantly come back.

"One day - one goddamn day, and I couldn't even hide it that long." Hermione shook her head at herself, not believing she had managed to be that stupid.

"It was going to happen sooner or later. Look at it this way - now you don't have to deal with it later on."

Hermione gave a forced laugh, and, in a small voice, said, "yeah, that's looking at the bright side of things."

There was a knock at the door, and Andrew went to answer it. Hermione craned her neck around to see who it was; two young boys, no more than nineteen or twenty, stood in the doorway, looking quite as nervous as she felt.

"What do you guys need?" Andrew asked, moving aside for them to come in. The moment they had entered, he slammed the door shut, plunging the room back into semi-darkness.

One of them - brown hair and eyes, and incredibly skinny - answered, "whatever you've got, we'll take."

Andrew considered this, and answered, "I've got about a gram of Speed, if you're looking for what you usually get..."

Before Andrew could finish his sentence, the same boy said, "that's fine."

"Okay,"

Andrew left the room, supposedly to get the Speed, and the quite boy took the spot next to Hermione. He could have been the younger of the two - blond, with green eyes, and scabs all over his arms. Being around him made Hermione uncomfortable, but she wasn't about to say anything - really, what could she say?

Andrew was back shortly, bag in hand, and the brown-haired boy exchanged their money for it. "Pleasure doing business with you," Andrew said, pocketing the money. "I'll have another shipment in by Sunday, if you want to come back for more."

When Andrew said, "Sunday", Hermione thought that both of the boy's hearts may have been broken. Clearly, both of them were trying to think of how they could make a gram last between them for three days - would she be like that one day? She was already like that with Xanax... but, there were worse things than Xanax.

"Call us if something comes in sooner, yeah?" The quite one said, getting up to leave.

"As always," Andrew said, seeing them to the door.

While they were leaving, Hermione realized what she was feeling toward them - it was envy. They had their drugs; she wanted hers.

"Andrew, have you got any Xanax left? I've still got some money - enough to last me a few days."

She no longer counted how many Xanax she took a day - all she knew was, when she started feeling the last pills wear off, she would take more. And more. And more.

"Yeah, give me a second... not quite sure where I left them..."

While Andrew looked, Hermione went to the front pocket of her bag, and got out her money. When she said she had enough to last a few days, she realized she had been being highly optimistic. At the rate she was using, she would run out of money before the day was over - and that was if Andrew was feeling generous today. Panic set in, and she wondered what she could do to get more money.

Before she thought of an answer, Andrew called out that he had found them, and she pushed it from her mind. Right here, right now, she had money, and Andrew had her drugs. She would deal with the future when the future came. She took her razor from the same pocket, and rushed to the kitchen, where Andrew was.

She handed him the remainder of her money, and snatched the bag containing a half dozen pills from his hand. She went to the living room, poured two onto the coffee table, and began to chop them up, finely, trying to be quick, without leaving chunks large enough to get stuck up her nose. Nervously, she completed her task, and put her thumb against one nostril; putting her nose as close to the line as possible, she inhaled deeply, and sent the powder up her nose.

Instantly, she felt better. The high would not set in for several minutes, but just knowing that it would be coming made everything better. She was able to lean back, relax, and tell herself that, eventually, everything would be okay.

* * *

That night, both Hermione and Andrew out of pills, and Hermione completely broke, Andrew offered her a shot of Heroin, provided she pay him back for it.

Instantly, she took it, and let Andrew cook the drug and shoot her up.

The high from the drug was sickeningly familiar, and, as she sank into it, reminded herself that she was digging herself into a cycle - one she may not be able to break herself of.

* * *

**Thank you for the support for the first chapter - I hoped you liked this one!**

**As always, I feel the need to explain myself...**

**Hermione's parents always seemed to be the up-right kind of folk. I mean... anyone who would name their child after a Shakespeare character must be pretty rigid. The only thing that made sense to me, if they had already suspected her of abusing her prescribed medication, and then saw needle marks on her arms, would be for her to be told to clean up or get out. And, if she was suddenly disappearing for long stretches of time, and then suddenly came home in an obviously impaired state, they would immediately think she was either drunk, or on drugs. It was the only outcome that made sense to me, so it was what I put down. **

**Thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed it.  
**


	3. Chapter three

Andrew's car was beat up, looked as though it had not been washed in months, and, on the inside, was filled with all sorts of useless trash. The front fender was completely smashed in, and had the smell of cigarette smoke embedded in every inch of it.

"Is this thing really safe to drive?" Hermione asked as she opened the passenger door.

"Hasn't let me down yet,"

Well... she couldn't very well argue with that.

Judging by the sounds the car made as it turned on, each moment it was on the road was a miracle. Hermione wasn't about to point out the fact that this was the most suspicious car she had ever seen, and didn't doubt that the police would think the same thing - Andrew was paranoid enough as it was, without her stating the obvious.

Trying to take her mind off the fact that, if Andrew made a minor traffic violation, she would be in the deepest trouble she could ever imagine, Hermione took a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, lit one up, and took light puffs out of it. She had gotten better at it in the last couple of days; it helped to constantly be around people smoking, and, at the very least, the smell of heavy cigarette smoke. Still, she could only take light puffs, and coughed every couple inhales.

Really, she didn't even know why she was smoking - it wasn't like it made her feel particularly good. Funny, she thought. Very funny.

She exhaled out the car window, keeping the cigarette turned away from Andrew out of courtesy - although, it didn't seem to make a difference to him, either way.

"Where do these people live?" She asked, coughing in between her words, trying to end the awkward silence.

"Some shit-hole motel down by the city center." He sighed, "I don't even know why I bother going to the people. Should make them come to me; It'd be a lot less risky."

Hermione reached the end of her cigarette, and put it out in the ash-tray. "Maybe. But then you'd have your address going around, and if someone got caught... maybe they'd think they could give you up in exchange for a lighter penalty."

"You think like a criminal - I like it."

Shrugging, Hermione sank back, feeling completely exhausted. When was the last time she had gotten sleep that wasn't drug induced? She couldn't quite remember... Her mussels were tight, her head ached, and she craved any sort of high she could get, at the moment.

As far as she knew, her parents had made no effort to find her - although, since she had spent every moment holed up in Andrew's living room, she didn't expect she would have heard of it. How long would she have to be gone before they started worrying? She thought it would have suited them right if she disappeared for a few weeks - let them wonder what happened to her. Let them see what could have happened to her...

It was silly, she thought. She had wanted to leave - they simply helped her in the process.

"Told you it was a shit-hole." Andrew said, stopping the car.

Saying it was a shit-hole would have been nice. There were no more than six rooms, blue paint chipped and faded; the lights that glowed from the windows dim and, on occasion, flickering.

Andrew stopped her as she went to open the door, and told her, "don't say anything, just watch what I do. If they talk to you, keep the conversation as short as possible, and, above all, _don't do anything stupid._"

"Right... got it..." Hermione said, going back to open the door. The nighttime air was cool, and gloriously fresh - save the noise of light traffic, the night was silent. The motel seemed to be out of place here, as though it was the thing that didn't belong; right down to the people inside of it.

Hermione followed Andrew to the nearest door, which had mark on it that looked as though someone had kicked it. Only a few seconds had gone by between Andrew knocking and the door being swung open; a forty-something year old man was on the other side, with a girl who looked as though she was falling apart in the background. Her hair was thinning, and she was amazingly thin; her eyes bugged out of her head, standing out against her pale skin.

The room itself was a complete disaster - clothes, dishes, and a small collection of pornographic magazines were strewn over the floor, the bed was unmade, and the blanket was beginning to come apart. The walls were covered in a hideous wallpaper, which was peeling, and had several punch holes in it.

"Hello there," Andrew said, inviting himself inside. Hermione stuck close by him, heart pounding, wishing she was anywhere but in this motel, at this moment, with these people.

Skipping the questions, the man launched straight into the transaction. "We need two grams - you have that much, right?"

"Anything for you two," Andrew said, "the real question is: do you have the money?"

"Fuck, yes, do you think I would have called you if I didn't?"

Andrew shrugged, "we all have our reasons for doing things. You know the drill - money first, and then you get your shit."

The man pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, handing them to Andrew. In turn, Andrew took his time counting out each bill, nodding when he saw there was the right amount, and pulled a bag of white rocks from his pocket. He tossed it to the man, who caught it mid-air, and smiled - his teeth were nearly entirely rotted out; what was left were nothing more than black stumps. Hermione suppressed the urge to cringe, and felt pity for the girl who was with him.

"Thanks for coming through, Andrew." The man said, "I knew I could always count on you."

Andrew grinned, "there's nothing I wouldn't do for my favorite costumers."

The man through the bag to the girl, who seemed to know exactly what to do - she walked over to the dresser, poured half of the rocks out over it, and fetched a razor to cut it with. She was skilled, Hermione noticed, briskly chopping and dividing the meth into two lines.

"Right then - I'll see you later?" Andrew said, heading for the door. Hermione went with him, not waiting to hear the man's goodbyes, and instantly felt her heart-rate drop once she was back outside; she took several deep breaths as they walked back to the car, trying to calm down.

Getting back into the car, Hermione was amazed at how quickly the deal had happened - save the setting, it certainly wasn't what she had imagined a drug deal looking like, despite the number of times she had seen Andrew sell out of his house. Were they _all _like that?

They did not talk as they drove to their next destination. Few cars were on the road; the only places that were open at this time of night were the bars, and even those would be closing soon. What places did these people have to be? Were the people in their cars thinking the same thing about them?

Hermione drummed her fingers on the arm-rest, admiring the track-marks on her arm. The first ones she had gotten were beginning to heal over, and the newest one - the one she had gotten this morning - was nothing more than a tiny, pink, pinprick. Something about them was beautiful to Hermione; she wished that she had more light than that from the passing streetlight - looking at them was like falling into a trance. Without thinking, she rubbed her thumb over a cluster of them, nothing but affection in her heart.

Their next location was much nicer than the motel - it was small, but the lawn was well-kept, and there was a chain-link fence surrounding the grass. Someone had even planted a flower-bed, with each plant brightly colored and perky. Only one light was on, giving the assumption that the people that lived there had simply gone to bed without remembering to turn it off.

It was comforting.

Andrew seemed to know the place well, knowing exactly where the latch was to open the gate, and striding to the front door, knocking several times.

It took much longer for these people to answer; when they did, Hermione was nearly taken aback - the woman who answered the door looked... normal. She did not have scabs on her arms, her face was not sunken in, and she did not look at though she was about to jump down the throat of the first person to get on her bad side. She did, on the other hand, have her arms crossed over her chest, and did not look as though she was about to welcome Andrew inside.

"I thought I told you not to come here anymore." She said, firmly, a scowl on her face.

Andrew shrugged, "if Morgan's going to call me, I'm not going to ignore him. If he wants it... I need the money, you know? If I've got a costumer, I'm not going to deny them."

The woman was not about to take this. "He's _trying _to get clean, you know that! It's never going to happen if you keep coming down here every time he asks you to!"

Sighing, Andrew answered, "look, if the guy doesn't want to get clean, he's not going to get clean - end of story. I'm sorry, but I don't know what to tell you. If I don't sell to him, he'll find someone else - someone much, _much, _more cut-throat than I am."

"Like you're a saint or something?"

To answer this, Andrew pulled open his jacket. "I'm the only dealer I know who doesn't carry a weapon on him. You don't know the half of what a guy would do to someone who couldn't pay them - Morgan is lucky to have found me, and not someone else."

"You've ruined his life, and you won't take responsibility for it!" The woman replied, throwing up her hands. "And look, you've even gone out and found a little kid's life to fuck up, as well!"

Hermione looked at Andrew, unsure if she should say the things she wanted to. Right now, feeling as though she had been run over, she was more than willing to punch the woman in the face, if she didn't believe it would get the police called on them. As if he knew what she was thinking, Andrew shook his head at her, and returned his attention to the woman.

"I'll leave tonight, but I'm telling you, you're just putting Morgan in more danger."

The moment Andrew finished speaking, the woman slammed the door shut; Hermione could hear more than one lock turning.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked as they walked back to the car.

Again, Andrew shook his head. "Morgan's been buying from me since I started dealing. His girl wants him to quit - the guy's going crazy, you know? Getting more and more desperate as the days go on. I wouldn't be surprised if we found him wandering around some ghetto tomorrow, looking for _anyone _to sell him _anything_."

"How is it you can't manage to get to him?" Hermione asked, "if he could call you to come over here, how can't you manage to get him away from her long enough to make the deal?"

"Fuck if I know..." Andrew said, sighing heavily.

A look crossed over his face that made him look at though he was lost in though; leaving him to his thoughts, Hermione returned to her hobby of watching the other cars drive by. It was just after two in the morning; soon, she knew, a group of Andrew's friends would be gathering at his house, expecting to drink and use until they passed out, the memory of what they had spent the night doing lost forever...

This was the story of most every night, each one seeming more wild than the night before. While she tried to reign herself in when there were so many people around, she could hazily recall being so drunk the night before, that she had not even been able to sit up. Who knew how long she had been laying on the floor, giggling like a child, slurring out the stupidest of things, and clutching a half-empty bottle of vodka to her chest.

All in all, it had been a pretty good time.

They arrived back at the house shortly after two thirty; Hermione lighting a cigarette as she walked in. The house was even messier than usual - with her cigarette in one hand, Hermione piled the heaps of Andrew's dirty clothes into a corner, deciding that, tomorrow, she would give the place the proper cleaning it desperately needed.

"Ah! Look what I found!" Hermione shouted, finding a bong under a filthy sheet. Honestly... if Andrew was going to use the living room as a hub for his laundry, would it really hurt him to actually get it to the laundromat at some point? "God, you're lucky I'm not a cop."

"Oh, hey, I was looking for that," Andrew said, walking over and taking it from her. As everything Andrew owned, it looked as though it had seen better days, but was still in working order. He carried it back to his room, which Hermione found highly amusing, considering he might want to keep it - compared to Andrew's bedroom, the living room was immaculate.

"Do you often just misplace things like that?" Hermione called, pausing to cough. "I'm amazed you haven't gotten arrested yet!"

Andrew reappeared, stepping around the maze he had made for himself. "It takes skill, trust me. Not many are suited for this kind of lifestyle - we are the few, the rare, the... calculating."

Hermione's heart froze momentarily when she heard Andrew say, "we". Did he consider her a member of the drug world? Honestly, she herself considered her as such... but it seemed... surreal, almost, that others would.

How had she ended up here?

* * *

Clutching the ledge of the counter with one hand, Hermione used her other to tip the Vodka bottle, spilling more on the counter-top than she did into her glass. Despite using the counter as a crutch, Hermione was at risk of falling over at any moment - she had lost track of how much she had drank tonight; if someone asked her, she would just be able to say, "a lot."

Sitting on the kitchen floor, Hermione raised the glass to her lips with both hands, getting most of the burning liquid on her shirt, and choking from taking too big of a gulp. She gasped, sputtering, unable to even form a coherent thought.

Andrew's friend, Brian, was standing in the doorway - he might have been asking her something, but if he was, Hermione could not understand what he was saying.

Ignore the fact that he was there, Hermione slid until she was laying down, not noticing she was doing so until it was too late to stop herself.

"Oh, no!" She cried, not knowing what else to say. Coming out, even she could not make out what she was trying to say - next time, she swore to herself, she would _not _get this drunk.

Brian laughed, at her, drunk as well, coming over and helping her to sit up. She wanted to tell him that she didn't need his help, that she was perfectly capable of sitting up on her own, but she couldn't think of the words one would say to convey that message.

"You remind me of one of my friends," she said instead, not sure which friend she was thinking about, just knowing that something about Brian seemed very familiar.

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" He asked, sitting down next to her.

Hermione shrugged, "I don't really know."

From that moment on for her, the night was nothing more than a big, void, blank.

* * *

**This chapter seems a bit short to me, but this seemed like too perfect a place to end it. **

**I hope you enjoyed - I'm very happy with how it turned out, myself, despite it's short length! **


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